


We Make Our Stars

by orphan_account



Category: Uta no Prince-sama
Genre: F/M, Haruka is a precious airhead, Masato is a cinnamon roll, YOI-inspired, and Tomo is her guardian angel, figure skating AU, not actually a crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 08:26:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12790635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In which Haruka accepts an anonymous challenge, and Masato has something to prove. For the 2017 Utapri writers' group fic exchange.





	We Make Our Stars

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Sometimes, I like to play with other people’s characters.
> 
>  **A/N:** I am _so late_ with this. Oh my goodness. And I know a lot of you guys already know my situation, but I just—
> 
> I hate being late. ;___; 
> 
> As it were, though, the author in me fought the competitive perfectionist and won. I’d rather do work I can stand behind and be late than to turn in something half-assed on time. This idea came to me in a literal instant during a multi-way conversation in the Utapri writer’s group about a month ago, back when I was still throwing around a few ideas for the exchange—and then it was so obvious what this needed to be. The idea practically screamed at me. And _then_ , because I’m apparently incapable of writing anything less than 10k words, it promptly exploded. 
> 
> What I will say going in: first, this is not my best work. I usually spend about three months on a story so I can let it settle, but I wrote this over the course of about three weeks, so it’s kind of raw. Second, this is not a YOI crossover. But it’s heavily inspired by that—and also a little bit by my own experience as a figure skater.
> 
> So this is for Kisaki. :3 I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> (I’m now off to read your story for me)

It was instinctual, by now: a shift of weight between edges, forward-to-backward, a pause, a set— _pick_ —up and around in four tight circles, curve onto the opposite foot. Except— _damn_ , he thought to himself, though he rarely swore, and even then, only in his conscience. He felt a stab of pain through his right foot that was followed by a hitch in his landing. And if he’d caught it, his coach had.

“ _Hijirikawa._ That landing was flat-footed.”

He was facing away, intentionally—he took a breath, then turned to the scrutiny that was facing him over crossed arms, brows drawn tightly over the sunglasses he always wore, even when inside.

“I know.”

“Then tell me _what went wrong._ ”

The last three words were in English. Again, he took a breath. He drew himself up to his full height, turning fully to face the man who had made him.

“I under-rotated. I exited too early, having underestimated how much height I would need relative to distance travelled.”

“ _Good._ Do it again, with _feeling._ ”

Feeling. He fought down a scoff. Then, he steeled his shoulders, pushing off from where he was standing. He needed momentum for this, so he curved out around the narrow end of the rink in long crossovers—a younger skater moved out of the way without his having to tell him, and he was silently grateful.

Change of direction. Stroke, set, pick. He willed more power into his quads as he lifted up, pulling up and in—the extra quarter-turn he needed. He landed on the front of his foot, the rest arcing down in a hiss. His foot protested, but he stuck it.

“ _Better._ Your takeoff is clumsy. Again.”

He did it again. And again, until the pain in his foot became unmanageable. At 24, he’d sustained enough injuries by this point to know when he was nearing his limit. And Shining had been his coach long enough to have an intuition about these things. When Masato stopped answering him in words, that meant they were done for the day. And when a step sequence that ended in a death drop caused him to nearly fall out of his sit spin, he finally admitted it to himself.

 _Feeling._ Shining said that so often that it didn’t mean anything anymore. He crossed the ice and exited, wiping the snow off his blades as he did so, ignoring the look tossed his way by his competitor. Camus had famously dueled with his former coach, Alexei Morotsov, the previous year, after taking silver at the world championships in Boston. It had been the talk of the figure skating world for months when he’d left him for Saito Hatoshi, Morotsov’s longtime rival, to train in Tokyo—the very place where Morotsov had lost to Saito nearly fifty years previous.

For his part, he ignored the look. It was common enough, and to be expected when training with one’s rival. He himself had placed fourth that year, barely missing the podium. He’d been edged out by a newcomer—a newcomer who was, at present, executing a perfect quadruple Salchow, a fact which sent a twinge through his gut before he brushed it away. His own quad Salchow was uneasy at best. That was one of many things about his skating which nagged at him, as it was one of the easier ones.

“What you need is _inspiration_ ,” came his coach’s familiar voice. He hadn’t even seen him exit the ice—he just appeared there, like some kind of trick. 

On instinct, he straightened. Shining had long since become the voice of his consciousness. But when he turned, the man had his back to him. Instead, he was addressing a short woman with soft pink hair—a woman who glanced his way when he saw her looking at them, as though she could feel his stare.

The twinge in his gut tightened into a full grip, and he froze. It couldn’t be. He knew her—

“And I suspect,” he paused. The pause was heavy, calculated, aimed. “—that you’re not the only one.”

With that word, Shining’s head inclined fractionally toward his own, enough to make his glasses flash. Masato instantly tensed. But it was the girl— _no, woman,_ he corrected—he turned to instead, finding she had done the same. 

Once, many months ago, his younger sister had begged and pleaded their father to take her to a TOMO concert. It was a single event, not part of a tour. But it was impossible, their father had said. The concert was in Tokyo, and it was during the week. Masato had overheard her pleading: he was living in Tokyo full-time for training, and had been for some time. He’d offered to take her, thinking their father would refuse. But to both of their surprise, he had approved.

They were late booking their tickets, and by the time they had done so, the only seats remaining were near the top of the arena, tucked back into the middle of one of the sections. The best he’d been able to do were seats in two separate rows—but one was right behind the other. He would be able to stand behind Mai, maybe help her to see. And so they had gone—he had made her promise to hold his hand the entire time so they wouldn’t be separated. But Mai was so excited that she would have agreed to anything. And despite himself, he’d found her joy infectious.

But despite their practically airborne seats, it had been hard to see. Mai was small for her age, and even standing on the chair, Masato supporting her shoulders, she was constantly ducking her head around the people in front of her so she could see better. And then at one point, to Masato’s horror, she had tapped the shoulder of the woman standing in front of them—since she was yelling, everyone near them had heard her ask the woman to stand a little bit to the side so that she could see better.

And then, to Masato’s _further_ horror, the woman had changed seats with her. When she’d noticed Masato, along with their resemblance, she’d offered to switch with him as well so that they could be together—he had furiously declined, apologized for the inconvenience, then stood, mortified, as she offered to help him keep an eye on Mai. 

But the feeling was for naught. Mai seemed to enjoy her time with the strange woman far more than she had with him, and not just because she could see better. The woman was incredible with her. He had always had a hard time with children—even his sister, sometimes, for all that he loved her. But the woman was a natural. Throughout the show, she engaged with Mai like she’d known her for years, pointing out things on the stage, even dancing with her during a hit radio single that even he recognized. He’d had a hard time concentrating after that, finding himself paying more attention to the two of them than to the concert.

“She’s so cool,” she heard Mai say to the woman during a break in one of the songs. “I wish I could meet her.”

And then, it had gotten even worse. The woman was standing closer to him than Mai was, so he caught every word when she said: “You know, Mai-chan, I can take you backstage after the show. If that’s okay with your brother, of course.”

Mai had railed around so fast that he was afraid she would fall. But the woman had steadied her. “ _Really?_ ” She’d looked up at him, her eyes huge. “Masa-nii, can we _please?!_ ”

He’d sighed. There was no feasible way that he could have denied her this, and he hadn’t wanted to. So they had gone. Sure enough, the woman had produced a pass of some sort that had instantly let them through. As Mai had run forward to meet her idol—hugging her around the waist in a way that made him blush—he had turned to the woman and thanked her for her generosity.

“It’s no trouble,” she’d said. “Tomo-chan is a friend of mine. I let her know we were coming.”

“And yet you were watching her from such a distance?”

The woman had smiled. “I like to watch her from the audience, sometimes. To get the full experience.”

It had been her spontaneous compassion that had made him pause. It was doing the same now, as he met the innocent, questioning, but _true_ look she was now giving Shining, having recognized something in the offer, still unspoken, that he suddenly knew she wouldn’t refuse. He had looked her up after the concert. Without having asked her name, it had been difficult to find anything—until he had come across an article in a major music magazine that had had a photo of her and Shibuya Tomochika together in the studio, along with a line about the _dream team._ Friends and artists, making each other’s music.

Before he could think, the words left his mouth: “You’re Nanami Haruka.” 

In a flash, she turned to him. “Yes. Have we met before?”

She didn’t remember. Good, he thought. He didn’t have to explain himself. He turned to Shining. “You got _Nanami Haruka_ to score my routine?” When no one said anything, he continued, piecing the situation together. “Surely she has better things to do than this. Why are you wasting her time?”

When she paled, he realized his mistake. The last thing he’d wanted to insinuate was that she wasn’t capable of doing it. “I didn’t mean—”

He nearly choked on his words. But Shining was laughing, a deep sound that he swore he could feel through the floor. 

“She volunteered.”

He paused, closing his open mouth as this realization sunk into him as well. He turned to her again.  
“Is that true?”

She nodded. “In my agency, sometimes, between commissions, there is a pool of potential requests that haven’t been assigned to any person. When I saw the request…” she paused, blushing, a hand raising partway to her lips again before she seemed to catch herself and lowered it. “…it was very interesting to me. I wanted to do it.”

“You chose me, then.”

Her blush doubled in intensity. “Well—it was anonymous, actually. I didn’t know who it was for. There was no name on it, only a contact number.” She looked away, then. When she spoke again, her voice was soft. “If you’d rather I not do it, I can find someone else—”

“ _No!_ ” The word came out forcefully, and she flinched back. Unbidden, he felt his cheeks grow hot. “No,” he said again, regaining himself. “I want you to do it.”

He did? As he scanned himself, he realized it was true. But before he could think on it much longer, Shining was speaking again.

“If you accept, you will compose his score for the World Championships.” Shining was addressing her like he was her boss, but was looking at him. “You will write a song that brings him to the next level.”

“Okay,” she said instantly. “I’ll do it.”

“ _Very good._ ” He looked at her, and Masato could see the grin on one side of his mouth. “You have two weeks.”

His indignation, which had subsided, flared right back. “That isn’t enough time!”

“It will have to be,” came a fourth voice. Ringo, his choreographer, had materialized beside them without him noticing, a clipboard clutched against his chest between his arms. “You will need the rest of the time to practice. Worlds are only six weeks away.” Ringo looked at him, then, his eyes very serious. “You know what the stakes are if you fail, Masato.”

He was the first to look away. “I know.”

“Then do your best.” He turned to Haruka, smiling a bit. “All of you. You too, Shining, you’re not off the hook.”

At that, Shining laughed. The two of them made their way out, leaving him and Haruka alone.

“He’s right,” she said after a moment. She was looking out at the rink, and he followed her gaze in time to see Camus execute his signature quadruple Lutz with a raised hand. He’d never been able to land that cleanly. “I do need inspiration. I…thought that doing something different might help.” She blushed again, still watching his rinkmates for a moment before she turned to him. “Besides…I want you to win. I like watching you, and I want to help you do your best.”

He couldn’t say anything. She had noticed him. Why did that suddenly matter so much—?

“Yes, well, let’s get started, then,” he said, sounding more flustered than he’d hoped to. _But it isn’t a lie,_ he thought.

But she just smiled. “Okay.”

And then she was walking down the hall in the direction that Shining and Ringo had gone, surprisingly fast for her small size. He watched her, perplexed for a moment, before following her—his skates still on, but his height meant he caught up to her in seconds.

“What are we doing?”

She turned to him, barely slowing down. “I want to talk with you before I start writing. It’s easier for me to write when I know the person who I’m writing for, at least a little bit.”

“Would it not be better to watch me skate, first?”

She blushed, then, pausing at a door he passed by every day but had never paid much attention to. It was a conference room, and it was unlocked. She looked down.

“Hijirikawa-san, I have to admit…I’ve already watched a lot of videos of you skating. That was part of how I prepared.”

“So you know I lost the Grand Prix Finals, then.”

She looked at him so quickly that it surprised him. “But you got silver at the Grand Prix Finals,” she said, her tone questioning.

She didn’t even hesitate before answering. He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. So he followed her inside, then past her, taking a seat at one of the closest chairs. 

“That is not enough,” he said. He was looking at his hands. “I have to win.”

  
× × × × ×  


For a long moment, Haruka said nothing. She watched him, studying—it was something she often did when she met with clients, particularly those she was meeting for the first time. But it was something she also tried only to do when she was meeting with groups. When the silence between them stretched into awkwardness, she sat forward, realizing she would have to direct this, and opened her notebook.

She felt him watch her. He had a particularly loud stare, and she could feel it along her arms and shoulders as she arranged her notebook and staff paper. She set her pencil across it, and looked up, folding her hands over her setup.

“Well, to begin with,” she began, easing herself into the routine of directing a conversation. It wasn’t something she liked to do, so it was something she had practiced exactly for these kinds of situations. “Can you tell me a little bit about what you would like this piece to be?”

The look he gave her was uncomprehending.

“What I would like it to be, Nanami-san?” 

She smiled, patient. But before she could explain further, he spoke again. 

“I want to light a fire in those who watch me.” He hadn’t been looking at her, but he was now. “I want to unleash myself. To be unpredictable.”

For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. She’d been expecting him not to know—in a way, that was what she had prepared for. So for him to know exactly what he wanted was surprising. But then, just as quickly, the surprise turned to relief—this would actually make things easier. 

Except, when she really saw the look he was giving her, a sense of uneasiness settled over her again. He colored a bit, breaking their gaze.

“Forgive me. That was…intense.”

“Yes,” she said.

He looked at her again. “Is it acceptable that I have strong feelings?”

“Of course.” She smiled. “A lot of people do.”

“Is that true for the artists you normally compose for?”

“Sometimes. It depends on the person, or the group as a whole. What they want to say.” Japanese pop music was so professionalized, something she had, as her composing career had progressed, come to view more and more as a restraint. Hence the reason for this assignment: something different. “When the artist wants something more than the usual, I want to help them express that.”

In a way, she felt guilty about her souring attitude toward her work. It wasn’t necessarily something she could prevent—but it also wasn’t something she was actively trying to stop, not anymore. 

In the beginning, it had been all about doing perfectly by the artists. Every piece, every line that came through her pencil was meticulously poured over until it was perfect—and then, too often, it felt, it was sent back, and she saw, after their review, all the flaws that she hadn’t noticed before. It had become an obsession trying to weed them out. Even more, it had been one she hadn’t noticed she was forming. Not until one of the artists she had worked with the longest pointed out that she needed to write for herself more—they were her expression, as much as she was theirs.

Masato didn’t respond right away. Even so, it was clear that he was thinking—they seemed similar, in that way, turning over every word and possibility until it was clear that they understood. When he looked up again, she realized that he knew that too. He was looking at her like he understood her.

She didn’t know what to do with that knowledge. And neither did he, it seemed. But then he masked it.

“Where should we begin?” He asked.

She considered this. “Well…I guess, how do you set the fire?”

And that was that. For a long time, they went back and forth. In the beginning, she offered suggestions that he would consider, and she was pleased by the lack of hesitancy in approving or denying them, or modifying the concept to what he envisioned. All too often, the artists she worked with were too timid to correct her to her face, especially if they were new, out of fear that she would take offense. But on the contrary, the clear guidance was refreshing. And before long, the piece began to take shape—she wrote ideas on the staff paper that she would spin further into later.

When they were done, she gathered her things, and they rose at the same time.

“Has this been what you were hoping for?”

The look on his face was very earnest. “It has been very helpful,” she answered. “I’ll write a few pieces and bring them back.”

The look turned to alarm. “You don’t have to do so much.”

She smiled. “It’s what I usually do. I write fast because I usually don’t stop when I’m writing a song.”

He relaxed. “I will not question your judgment, then.”

“I will see you again in a week,” she said as they made their way to the door. He held it for her, and she ducked under his arm. When they were outside, though, she glanced toward the rink, pausing. “Actually—would you mind if I came again tomorrow to watch you practice?”

He paused, then nodded. “Of course. Anything that will help your process.”

She smiled again, bowing slightly before she turned to leave. “I will see you tomorrow, then, Hijirikawa-san.”

He returned the gesture, inclining his head. “Tomorrow.”

Then, she left.

  
× × × × ×  


A couple of days later, Haruka returned to the rink. She’d texted Masato the day before to ask what times he practiced. The answer had instantly made her groan. He practiced four hours a day on the ice—from five until nine a.m. It was a rare day that she was at work before ten. So while that made it easy to fit into her schedule, it had also meant she would have to be out the door at six, so she could make it to the rink by seven. By then, he’d said, other skaters would begin to arrive—so if she wanted to observe him on his own, it would have to be before then.

She’d been so determined to remember her coffee on the way out the door that she’d forgotten her keys. She’d managed to catch the door right as it was closing, barely making it. But she’d spilled her coffee all over her shirt, meaning she’d had to change. By the time she’d done that, replaced her coffee, and triple checked that she had everything she needed, it was nearly six thirty. 

And then she’d had a hard time finding the rink. Beyond her usual poor sense of direction, it had taken her some time to even remember where it was, as it wasn’t in a part of town where she usually went. And when she arrived, she was grateful that the weather had been cold that day, as she’d forgotten to dress for the cold temperatures that met her inside, providing very little relief.

In short, by the time she was in the door, down the empty hallway, and seated on the bleachers beside the rink, her stomach dropped a little when she looked up and saw several other skaters running through their drills. She’d missed him. On top of that, Shining was there. As focused as he was, he didn’t even notice her.

Haruka sighed, pulling out her notebooks. For a moment, she was tempted to film them—an icy glance her direction from one of the other skaters had caught her off guard for a moment until it occurred to her that they might think she was scoping out the competition on behalf of someone else. So she’d put her phone away.

Instead, she watched. She watched him practice the same elements over and over again, surprised at the rush she felt at seeing the moves he did executed in person. There was something thoroughly different about watching it for herself rather than watching it through a screen. Before long, she found herself transfixed. Her notebook sat untouched in her lap as she watched Masato perform pieces from his last routine, drills, whatever Shining said. Things she could hardly believe a human body could do. How he did them over and over again, probably dissecting every piece of it, trying to find the errors that she would never understand.

But there were other things to notice as well. She watched how he interacted with Shining, the stoicism and seriousness of every inclination of his head and correction of his posture. They never touched, but they may as well have. He was like a marionette that Shining could move with his mind. He didn’t acknowledge his rinkmates very much, either. It was a vast, cavernous space, and most of the others seemed to keep out of the place at one end of the rink where he and Shining had made their camp.

He looked up at her. Something on his face showed that this was the first time he’d noticed she was there, and she smiled, nodding once.

Then he turned back, straightened, said something to Shining that she couldn’t hear, but which made the man let out a bark of a laugh before crossing his arms over his chest and nodding. 

And then, just like that, he was dancing for her. 

There was no music. Immediately, though, it was apparent he didn’t need it. She knew very well that something practiced as many times as he’d done this routine became memory—there were entire symphonies that she could play without music. Somehow, this was like that. For what felt like a very long time, she watched, transfixed, at the moves she’d seen only a few times, but which she remembered with each step. Trying to predict them. Trying to watch what he was doing with his feet, only to find it was thoroughly beyond her.

So she didn’t immediately catch it when a grunt came her way from one side of the rink. Only when a sharp, slightly accented “ _You_ ” sounded from the side that she snapped out of her reverie to find the blonde skater who had glared at her earlier staring her down with nothing less than frost in his gaze. 

His voice cut her off.

“Why are you here?”

It wasn’t rude, exactly, but it wasn’t polite, either. Nevertheless, Haruka straightened, a tightening in her gut making her wonder if she should leave. She looked back at Masato—he was about halfway through the program, if she remembered correctly. Her grip on her pencil tightened.

“I—” she began. Her voice choked, so she spoke again. “I am composing the song for Hijirikawa-san’s next program. I wanted to…observe him before I began.”

“You’re a composer?” A second voice, also foreign, had joined the first, and she looked back at them to notice a dark-skinned skater positively _beaming_ at her from beside the first, who scowled at him.

“Fool. She just said that.”

“I—”

The second skater’s laugh cut her off. “Wow. I bet the music you make is beautiful. Can I hear it sometime?”

“You already have.”

“Huh?”

The first skater closed his eyes, tipped his face down. “She is extremely famous for her work. Even you would know…”

Was that an acknowledgement—? She was dazed enough to barely respond when he rattled off a list of songs she had worked on. The second skater had grown more excited with each. “That’s amazing,” he said. “Masato will have the best music of anyone at Worlds.” 

The first skater ignored the jab, turning back to her. If possible, his look had frozen even more. 

“You realize that he will need more than a good song to have a chance.”

The underside to that statement made Haruka blush. But before she could say anything, the other skater had turned on him, practically shouting. She looked back at Masato, who had stopped—his routine had just ended, which she could see even from there by the fact he was out of breath. 

He looked up at her. She felt guilt flash up in her—she’d missed the second half of his routine. But rather than the hurt she expected, he said something to Shining, who nodded, then made his way over to them.

Embarrassed, she opened her mouth to speak. He was looming by the others, his expression serious.

“Why are you harassing Nanami-san?”

Both of them glanced at him. The second skater turned partway toward Masato, blushing slightly. He then turned toward her. 

“I’m sorry. You’re here for him, and I’ve distracted you.”

“We were discussing her interests,” the first skater said to Masato.

The two of them were silent. The look Masato was giving him was equally hard. And somewhat to her surprise, Masato was the one who relented first, crossing his arms with a sigh as he looked down.

“She is composing a piece for me.”

“You are gambling on a pop composer to save your chances.”

Haruka’s head snapped up. She felt herself blush furiously. “I don’t—”

The second skater smiled at her, apologetic, as the two of them railed in the background. 

“Don’t mind him. He’s always like this.”

If the first skater heard the jab, he ignored it. Haruka smiled, equally apologetic. 

“I…don’t take it personally. This isn’t the first time someone has questioned my abilities.”

Her voice was quiet, meant only for the person in front of her. But as she spoke, the first skater said something to Masato that she couldn’t hear, then skated with what seemed like impossible grace to the other side of the rink. Even in the simple act, he seemed formidable.

And then she knew. He’d been vaguely familiar to her from across the rink—up close, she was sure she’d seen him before, but hadn’t been able to place him. But when she did, she realized with surprise that this was Camus—the person who had won the Grand Prix Finals that year. They shared a rink? How must that—

Before she could think about it, Haruka shot to her feet, cutting off her own thoughts. Suddenly, it was as though she had turned on a faucet—the pieces of the song she would write were coming to her so fast that it took nearly all of her mental energy to hold on to them. Quickly gathering her things, she bowed to each of them.

“I’m very sorry—I have to go.” 

“Nanami-san—”

She smiled at Masato, already on her way down the steps. 

“I will come again, Hijirikawa-san,” she said. “If that’s okay with you?”

His face relaxed, and she realized then that he’d thought he’d offended her. For some reason, the thought sent a warm feeling through her, despite the cold—he was very thoughtful.

“Of course. I look forward to it.”

The second skater called out to her as she left.

“Bring some music with you! I want to hear it!” 

She laughed, waving. “Okay!”

  
× × × × ×  


When the next day, she didn’t come, he didn’t think much of it. The second, he was disappointed not to see her—a fact which caught him enough off-guard that he redoubled his training efforts, every step, both on and off-ice, perfectly deliberate, trying to purge those thoughts from his mind. By the fifth day, he’d wondered if she’d forgotten, or if she’d just been too busy to come. It was very early in the day, even for him—he laced up his skates in silence, the only other sound in the empty rink the hum of the air conditioning far above.

So he was surprised when the door opened, echoing through the space, and he looked up to find Haruka making her way hurriedly toward him, a manila folder clutched to her chest. Her cheeks were pink with the cold. He stood up.

“Nanami-san,” he said, quietly enough that she didn’t seem to hear. She’d shifted the folder to one hand and was digging through her purse, producing a notebook as well as a pencil. “What are you doing here?”

She froze, blushed, and looked up. “I—”

This time, he caught his mistake faster. He hadn’t meant to insinuate that he didn’t want her there, and he quickly corrected himself. “I mean—it’s Saturday. And it’s barely six a.m.”

Her blush deepened. “I—I know,” she said again. “I’m sorry, Hijirikawa-san.”

He frowned at this. “What are you sorry for?”

“I—thought, maybe, that you’d thought I’d forgotten about coming to watch you,” she said, echoing his earlier thoughts. Her voice was small, and she shook her head before looking up at him and smiling a bit. “I just—” she caught herself. “I’m sorry. It’s probably better if I show you.”

She made her way to the side of the rink, setting the folder, her notebook, and her purse on the edge. He followed her, stopping at a respectable distance while she pulled a small copper box from inside it. When the box was followed by a very large set of headphones, he realized what she was doing. She unwound the long chord.

“Hijirikawa-san…I’m sorry I didn’t come again this week,” she said. “When I started writing, I couldn’t stop. I wanted to come as soon as I finished—I didn’t even think about whether you would be here.”

“I am usually here in the morning,” he said, smiling a bit. She did as well, looking up at him again after connecting the headphones. _You do not have to justify yourself,_ he thought, but didn’t say. _Especially not to me._

But then another thought occurred to him, and he frowned.

“You really came as soon as you finished writing?”

Her blush deepened as she caught the insinuation. “Yes,” she said, not looking at him.

“Meaning that you have been awake all night?”

“Yes.” She pulled several pages from the folder, smiling apologetically. “But please don’t worry about me.”

He hadn’t realized he was worried until she said that. When he did, he blushed.

“My apologies. I said I would not question your judgment, and I have done so.”

“No, it’s okay.” She smiled. “I suppose I’m the sort of person who makes people worry about me. I don’t mean to…but I am often told that I work too hard.”

 _‘This isn’t sustainable, Masato,’_ a voice in his head told him. A memory came to him, unbidden—it was Ringo, after Worlds last season, frowning at him over crossed arms. _‘We both know what your father said. But your body will not sustain you pushing yourself this hard. Think about the consequences of what you’re doing. You are not only your own to abuse this way.’_

“I understand,” he said. 

She handed the headphones to him along with the music player. “I wrote five pieces,” she said. "I’ll play each of them, and then you can tell me which one you think is best.”

“Let’s sit down, then,” he said.

“I group everything by the person I wrote the track for. It’s under your name, under Albums.”

He nodded, illuminating the screen and navigating to the M’s. Nothing. But she called him by his surname—he tried again, and found it.

“Should I listen to them in any particular order?”

She smiled, shaking her head. “They’re listed in the order I wrote them. It’s up to you.”

He nodded again, considering, and placed the headphones on his head. The fact that she had been up all night composing had him deeply curious about the last piece—before he selected it, he stole a glance at her. Her face was in profile as she looked out over the rink, still dark due to the early hour. Her eyes were starting to droop. They would have to do this quickly. He knew exhaustion when he saw it, and she wouldn’t last much longer.

He pressed play, sitting back so that he was resting on the step above him with his forearms. He closed his eyes. The opening notes were so clear that it was as though they were pouring straight into his head. For several seconds, he just observed, noting instantly the finesse behind the sound—he was no expert, but it was clear that she was as devoted to her music as he was to skating, if not more.

He went still on the bench, letting his other senses fall away one by one. The piece was like nothing he’d ever performed before. For the first minute, it was almost perfectly level, the paces so rhythmic that it was almost more like the churning of a massive engine than anything else. Pleasant, but not exactly right.

As he was about to write the piece off, however, it changed. The rhythm stayed the same, but the tones split—first into three, then into five harmonious lines that first seemed in parallel, then began, for want of a better way of explaining it, _winding out_ of each other. He thought of ribbons of fireworks in a dark sky. Intrigued, he sat up a bit, as though to see better into the dark cave of the music, before realizing that was silly. 

There was something inside it. It was moving almost too fast for him to even discern. Whatever it was, it unsettled him. A vague part of him realized he had become tense—but it was as though he couldn’t stop himself. And he couldn’t stop whatever it was, either—there was a perilous fall that he felt through him like a shock, gripping him enough that he felt his lungs constrict with pressure.

And just then, it exploded. It rocketed upward—he nearly stood, only remembering at the last second to sit, to be still, to wait for the piece to finish. His heart raced. Already, he was filling it with what he would do at each turn and measure. When it was over—and it was over too fast, it felt, until he illuminated the screen and saw that the piece was exactly four minutes and thirty seconds long—he dimmed the screen again, removed the headphones, and sat up.

“Nanami-san,” he said, not looking at her. His hands were clasped between his knees, his gaze out over the empty rink. “I apologize sincerely for my rudeness. I don’t need to hear any of the other pieces. This is the one.”

“Huh—?” She turned toward him, sitting up, confused. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. In further certainty, he removed the headphones from around his neck, handing them and the device back to her.

“Which one—” she cut herself off, illuminating the screen. “Oh! This is the one I wrote this morning, I’m glad you like—”

She cut herself off again. From the corner of his eye, he could see she’d raised a hand to her lips—he knew the expression that was probably on his face, then. 

He closed his eyes. _Like_ the piece didn’t nearly begin to cover it. He would _live_ in that piece if he could. But he couldn’t say that. Not to himself, and not to her.

“If this is going to be my final competition, then I want to skate to this song.”

“ _What?_ ” Haruka flew up, whirling around, nearly knocking her papers over the floor. He steadied them and met her eyes. “You’re retiring after this?!”

He let out a breath, resisting the urge to massage his temples. He hadn’t originally intended to tell her this—very few people knew, and he’d been concerned beyond that that the knowledge would burden her. But it couldn’t be helped, now.

“My father is the president of a very large company,” he began. He felt his hand clench a bit before releasing it. “He has paid for my training and coaches since I was young, on two conditions: that I become the best in the world, and that I become his successor.”

“Oh,” she said.

“At the end of last season, I was given an ultimatum.” He looked at her. “Having failed to do so before, I have one year to win either the Grand Prix Finals or the World Championships. If I cannot manage either, I am to join my father immediately.”

“ _What?_ ” Her voice was very small. “Did you agree to his terms, Hijirikawa-san?”

“I was not given a choice.” He felt his mouth quirk up. “But there is an advantage, nonetheless. If I win, I am no longer bound to my father’s obligations. I am free to pursue whatever I wish.”

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. Haruka had folded her arms across herself and was looking out over the rink. But just as he was beginning to wonder if he’d made her uncomfortable, she looked back at him.

There was a look on her face that he’d seen many times before—not on her, but on himself. It was resolve, firm as steel.

“Hijirikawa-san,” she said. “I promise to do whatever I can to help you realize this goal.”

There was absolutely no arguing with her. She had laid down terms. It was his job to accept them. But there was more than that—something that he couldn’t name, pulsing inside him. Gratitude? Honor? Awe?

“I am grateful to have you on my side, Nanami-san.”

  
× × × × ×  


In the weeks that came, he saw less of her. It was to be expected—her job was relatively short in comparison to his, as once the song was finished, there was no need for her to be further involved. And the song was perfect. After the original version, they had met once more to discuss how she should mix the song to achieve the mood he wanted to create. She would be delivering the final version within the week.

But in the time since then, he’d missed her. The first time he realized that had been a little over a week ago, and the thought had taken him off guard. He barely knew her—what right did he have to miss her? _Focus,_ he’d told himself. _The competition is in three weeks. You have no time for distractions._

“Good,” came a voice that wasn’t his conscience. Ringo was standing at a corner, the long hair of his wig brushed over one shoulder. “Lean into that exit. Let your momentum carry you.”

The exit he spoke of was the end of a long arc that swung out into a direction change, setting his momentum for the hardest set of his performance: a quadruple flip-triple Lutz-double toe combination that was separated from a footwork sequence by barely a measure of music. What made it difficult was that it was followed immediately by a combination spin, with over half of his program still remaining. It was designed to showcase his endurance, but it was by far the hardest piece of choreography he had ever attempted. But when Ringo offered to step it down, he’d refused—it was better to attempt it and fail than to fail to attempt, especially if this was going to be the end of his career.

They hadn’t had time to put together a whole new routine from scratch, so the majority of the routine had been adapted from Masato’s senior debut, revised according to his skill and the needs of the song. It had been six years since he’d last skated it, but his muscle memory was long—and with Haruka’s song, it felt new and fresh every time he performed it. At speed and in the middle of a run-through, he couldn’t nod, so he adjusted accordingly on the next turn. “Good,” he heard Ringo say.

The next part had been eluding him. After that much exertion, there was a long stretch where he crossed most of the ice at a diagonal, gathering momentum for his next jump—the dreaded quadruple Salchow, increased from a triple in his debut, but one he nearly always underrotated. He was an aerial rather than a distance jumper, and the 4S required both. He set his entrance, a long forward outside edge that changed direction to the backward inside—in the air, he felt the distance but not the lift, and, as usual, under-rotated. He swung his leg out into an arc so he wouldn’t fall. He paused. The music cut.

“Spread your weight out on your foot,” Ringo corrected, skating to his side and demonstrating what he wanted him to do. “You’re flexing too much when you go in. That’s why you aren’t getting the lift you need.”

“It’s really that simple?”

His response was quippy, but he held back a smile. Ringo did not—he closed his eyes and laughed a bit.

“I’ve been trying to figure it out for a long time, why you haven’t been able to get that jump. But it just came to me.”

“What excellent timing, immediately before my last career skate.”

Ringo tutted, opening his eyes. “You’re going to have to believe in yourself more than that if you have any hope of winning this thing.”

He fought the urge to roll his eyes. “I don’t need belief. I need results.”

“Good,” Ringo answered, skating off to one side again to take his previous position. “Then run through that sequence again. Your footwork was sloppy.”

His footwork wasn’t sloppy, and they both knew that. It was Ringo’s way of teasing him. Still, as he was about to take his position, a movement out of the corner of his eye followed by a flash of pink made him pause—when he missed his cue, Ringo cut the music. But he was already crossing the rink.

“Nanami-san,” he acknowledged, stopping just short of the edge. “You have already finished the revisions?”

She colored a bit, holding the notebook she was carrying a bit tighter to her chest. “Ah—not quite,” she admitted. She glanced away. “I wanted to watch you skate again one more time before I finish it. There are a couple of parts I’m not sure about, and I thought it might help.”

He smiled. She was really, hopelessly cute when she was trying to lie, mainly because she was bad at it. Somehow, the thought warmed him.

“I’m happy you came,” he said. Her head whipped back around. “We are running through my routine for the performance.”

Her eyes were wide. “Really? Am I even allowed to watch that?”

He laughed a bit. “It isn’t a secret. Most people are simply…discouraged by the fact I practice at six a.m.”

She nodded. There was a pause, and in it he could see the bags under her eyes. He hoped sincerely that he wasn’t the cause of them.

“I’m happy that you’re here,” he said again. “I hope that watching me practice will give you the inspiration that you need. Although, for the record,” he was smiling at her, waiting for her to catch him. “To me, the song is perfect.”

“Let her be the judge of that,” Ringo said, coming up behind them with his arms crossed. “Meanwhile, I am the judge of your skating. You need to get back to practice and clean up your act.”

He blushed at that, but looked back over one shoulder before turning toward the center of the rink, following Ringo. “Thank you for your hard work, Nanami-san.”

From ahead of him, he saw Ringo glance at her in a way that made her blush. He saw her quicken her pace, taking a seat on the bleachers—but by then, he was at the center of the rink in his opening position. After a few seconds, Ringo pressed play.

To his surprise, however, they ran through the routine only once. After that—he could practically feel Ringo’s intense scrutiny the whole time, dissecting every element like a judge—they troubleshot several sequences in a blur. And then, with the sun barely arisen, they were done. Ringo acknowledged him with a nod, reminded him of their practice again tomorrow with Shining, then left the ice, leaving him and Haruka alone. It was just after seven.

Unsure of what to do, he paused for a moment. He wanted to talk to her, but wasn’t sure what he would say—and anyway, she was typing something furiously into her phone, her things already packed up. He made his way off the ice, wiping the snow from his blades before replacing his skate guards, wondering idly for a moment if he was being rude by not acknowledging her. Halfway to the locker room, he heard her voice.

“Hijirikawa-san.”

He stopped, turning—both unsure and relieved, until he saw the troubled expression on her face. Instantly, he tensed. 

“What is it?”

“Um,” she said, pausing. “Before I go, I wanted to ask you where the World Championships are being held.”

His mouth nearly fell open in shock. “Finland,” he answered. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh,” came her answer. Her embarrassment was gone, replaced by surprise. She nodded. “Wow. Okay.”

“Nanami-san—”

“I will send you the revised music before the end of the week,” she said, cutting him off. “But I’ll see you there.”

He felt his face flush deeply. “You don’t have to do that,” he answered quickly, quietly. But she smiled.

“I want to. I mean,” she paused again. “If that’s okay with you.”

There were suddenly a thousand things he wanted to say. He answered with the simplest of them, his heart racing. “Of course it is, Nanami-san. I will see you there.”

  
× × × × ×  


Haruka held a map between gloved hands. It wasn’t strictly necessary—Tomo was beside her, practically glowing in her hot pink winter finery, talking about something that Haruka wasn’t completely paying attention to. It was the middle of the day, and the streets were crowded with people. Between that, the cold, and trying to keep up with Tomo, the city was very overwhelming. 

The first thing she’d noticed when they had arrived in Helsinki had been the snow. Not for its novelty, but for the _season_ —it was late March, nearly spring, but she wouldn’t have known it for the snowbanks piled higher than her head along both sides of the street. As a precaution, she had also called on Tomo to help her pack. Her friend was as fashion-conscious as ever, but she’d also gone on enough tours by that point to know what was essential. And it was she who had talked Haruka out of packing nearly every winter jacket she owned, along with more hats, boots, scarves, and gloves than she could wear in a trip three times as long as the one they were taking. 

“Save room for your normal clothes. We’re not even going to be gone a week.”

From where Haruka had sat on her suitcase, trying to zip it, she’d glanced at her. “Who are you and what have you done with Tomo-chan?”

But it would have been much worse if she had been alone—thus, though her friend had had to take several days off work and re-schedule an appearance to come with her, she was very grateful.

“So I said, ‘I can’t possibly accept this.’ But Haru- _chan_. You should have seen him. He was so cute.”

 _That’s right,_ Haruka remembered. She’d heard through agency gossip that someone had tried to give Tomo a puppy as an incentive to make an appearance at their high school cultural festival. 

Haruka turned to her friend, half-bewildered—and Tomo promptly resumed her story, either interpreting or choosing to interpret the look on her face as a response. “I know. But if I accepted it, who knows how long it would be before I had a zoo in my house.”

Haruka laughed at this. “You could send them to Shinomiya-san. I think he would be very happy to take them.”

Tomo huffed a laugh. “Right. And then they’d be dead in a week because he’d try to feed them.”

Before Haruka could decide whether to defend him or laugh, though, she heard her name.

_“Haruka!”_

She and Tomo had looked at each other, then both turned at the same time to find one of the skaters from Masato’s rink running toward them. He caught Haruka’s arms in a hug, causing her to spin with the momentum.

“Aijima Cecil? Representing Agnopolis?” Tomo asked. 

The day before, they’d watched the short programs. When they arrived, Haruka had looked around, bewildered. 

“It almost looks like a concert venue,” Tomo had pointed out, echoing Haruka’s thoughts. “But colder. I’m glad it’s winter outside, it’s freezing in here.”

“I forgot to warn you,” Haruka had added apologetically.

“No harm done.” Tomo had poured over the performance guide, peppering Haruka with questions she couldn’t answer until she’d given up sometime during the second round. But her intense interest had never waned, and Haruka had found it infectious. 

The skater in question turned to Tomo, nodding. “Yes,” he answered—then turned right back to her, not appearing to recognize Tomo. “Are you here to watch us?”

“She is here to make sure Hijirikawa does her music justice.”

Camus approached from the same direction from which Cecil had come, looking every inch the stern viscount he supposedly was. After learning that Masato shared a rink with him, she’d looked him up, and had been surprised to learn that Masato wasn’t the only one facing pressure from authorities to step down from the sport. If it bothered him at all, she would never have known, but it had changed her opinion of him. Somewhat.

Still, despite the cold, she immediately felt her face flush, and pulled her scarf a little higher on her chin as though to hide it. The truth was, he wasn’t entirely wrong—she _was_ there to watch Masato. She’d watched him yesterday, performing the same program he’d used at the Grand Prix Finals, one that had left him in first place until the free skate the next day. Currently, he was in third, behind Camus and another Japanese skater named Sumeragi Kira. But she wasn’t just there to watch. She was there because she had a feeling that he would win—not that she could say so, especially not to these two.

Cecil’s face fell. But it lasted only a moment before his hands dropped from her shoulders to take both of her hands, looking her very seriously in the eyes. “Haruka,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about this since we met.”

Haruka felt tension release in her gut—he looked like he was about to confess his love to her. She laughed, nervous.

“After the World Championships, will you compose a song for me as well?”

Instantly, she relaxed. Music, she could handle. “I would be happy to.”

“—Well, you don’t need to _insult_ her by implying that that’s all she cares about. You obviously don’t know her at all.”

“Huh—?”

“Haruka,” Tomo huffed, clearly upset. “We’re leaving now. That man is not fit to be in your presence.” Cecil dropped her hands, only for Tomo to take her arm and begin to pull her away—which was when she realized that her friend had been verbally assaulting Camus while she’d been talking to Cecil. She felt her face flush again.

“Cecil-san, I’ll talk to you when we get back—”

The shocked look on Cecil’s face was replaced instantly by a huge smile. He waved, cupping a hand around his mouth to shout:

“We will make beautiful music together!”

Haruka’s blush deepened, and she didn’t have time to wave back as Tomo practically doubled her pace, dragging both of them toward a bus stop.

“Tomo-chan, slow down!”

She did, folding her arms as she stopped to wait. 

“I don’t like him. He gives me a bad vibe.”

“Who, Camus?” Tomo just exhaled, her eyes closed. Haruka laughed a little. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve had much worse.”

Tomo opened her eyes, glaring into the street as the bus arrived. “Not while I’m around. I don’t care if he’s a good skater. No one talks to you that way.” 

Haruka sighed. She didn’t bother correcting Tomo about the fact Camus hadn’t been talking to her, exactly. They boarded, depositing the total fare they’d been told about in the hotel lobby. The bus would pass by the arena—Haruka checked the time on her phone. They had a little over an hour before the first performances would start, but they would have to arrive soon if they wanted good seats.

“What would I do without you?” She said after a few minutes.

“You would be hopelessly lost and unprotected, a beautiful flower left to the mercy of predators.” Tomo draped an arm over Haruka’s shoulders, leveraging her height as the bus stopped and they disembarked, making their way into the arena. “Now, to watch some boys in tights. Are there any who aren’t assholes that you can introduce me to later? I appreciate…flexibility.”

Tomo winked. Haruka laughed.

They made their way to their seats, and waited.

  
× × × × ×  


The early rounds passed at a crawl. During the first two, he stayed backstage with Ringo, making his way through his choreographer’s warm-up regimen practically on autopilot. When Ringo adjusted his posture, he barely felt it.

But the slow pace of the regimen had helped him to clear his head, and by the time he’d made it out to the front, he was decidedly more settled. Whatever remained of his nerves, he’d just have to leverage into his performance. So he settled onto the sidelines alone, watching the third round of skaters appreciatively rather than competitively. 

_It’s just as well,_ he thought. There was a very good chance that this would be his last World Championships—his last competition, even. It wouldn’t do to hide in the back the whole time, and he didn’t want to. And anyway, the way these things went was that the early rounds were almost perfunctory as far as competitors went. It was the final round when the competition really heated up. And he was performing last, meaning he’d know exactly where he stood relative to the others. 

The day before, he’d looked around as he’d made his way onto the ice, catching her eye in the crowd. She’d waved—and when she’d turned to the person beside her, he’d been surprised to see that she’d brought her singer friend, the one she’d introduced his sister to nearly a year ago. The one who had, in a way, started all of this. He thought of Mai. She was home with their mother—the two of them rarely made it to his international competitions.

The arena went silent. In a flash, he’d cleared his head, and began. His performance had been almost clean—he had underrotated a triple loop at the end of a combination and two-footed the landing of his quadruple flip, but those had been the only errors. It had been enough to leave him in third. And the top five or six scores were tight that day—it was a loaded field, and it was anyone’s game.

A few years ago, that would have made him nervous. Now, it made him determined.

The third round passed, with a short break before the fourth. In that time, he’d seen his competitors gather—a Swiss skater, Sébastien Gilliand, caught his eye and winked. They’d made their senior debuts the same year, and had shared the ice for nearly half of the competitions in any year since then. And yet, they barely knew each other. Something like regret passed through him at that thought, but he waved it away.

Kira was first. He was in second after the short program, but his free skate had a lower difficulty level—still high, but not as high as some of the others. As usual, though, his skate was flawless. He was a cautious skater, but methodical and precise. In the whole time he’d known Kira, he’d never seen him fall during a program.

The next few passed in a blur. Gilliand was next, followed by a young Kazakh skater who had been in the third round the day before but who had moved up. He was explosive and powerful—a little unrefined, but with an amazing energy and fearlessness that had had the crowd clapping with the traditional music by the end of the program.

When it was Cecil’s turn, Masato sat forward. Cecil also trained with Shining. But it had always been hard to see the younger man as a rival when it was so clear that he skated for _love._ Out of every skater he’d known, Cecil had the least riding on his success in the sport: a bona fide _prince,_ the heir to the throne of Agnapolis seemed unaffected by whether he fame in first or tenth, and was always smiling whenever he saw him in practice. At first, it had been mildly annoying. Now, in a way, he envied him.

Cecil had a charisma on the ice that few could match, not even Camus. His programs were heavy on spins, including a few that he had rarely seen performed by men—his layback spin had been gossip fodder for months when he’d started training at their rink, and still drew looks from some of the youngest performers at competitions, those who had never seen him do it. That layback spin and an I-spin that rivaled what even the best female skaters could do had been what had lifted his program to a higher difficulty level, a spin which he came out of now in a move that looked effortless, but which no one else there could replicate. Masato found himself smiling. And then—

“ _Ouch._ That’s going to cost him.”

The voice had come from over his shoulder, in English. He glanced back—an American skater with one of the Spaniards, though he couldn’t remember which, since they looked alike. They’d both competed in the previous round. He hadn’t heard them approach.

Suddenly defensive of his rinkmate, Masato shot them both a look that silenced them. A moment later, they left without much fanfare, leaving the aisle empty except for one of the coaches, who was scrutinizing Cecil’s every move. He’d fallen out of his triple axel. It wasn’t a common mistake for him, but he’d put it too late in his program and had run out of steam. Masato could see it in his posture. Still, he finished with grace, and bowed. Shining met him at the edge of the rink. He nodded vigorously at something their coach said, then stepped off the ice.

It had been a bad fall. Staying down for too long meant additional deductions, and it had taken him a couple of seconds to get up again. He wouldn’t medal. As the ice cleared and attendants picked up what seemed like dozens of bouquets of the same purple flowers, Masato waited, feeling a ghost of disappointment. But Cecil would be back next year. There was no doubt about that—and next week, he’d be his usual smiling self back in training.

There were two more to go before him. Next up was the other Spaniard—Fernando Escalante, except that wasn’t his whole name. He had a reputation as a bit of a playboy. At the after party for the previous year’s Grand Prix Finals, everyone was a few drinks in when he’d been dared to say his full name—there were at least ten articles involved. He’d remembered that much.

Escalante fell twice. There was no way he would medal. Kira was currently in first. 

That left Camus, and then him. 

Masato sat forward again. He made himself watch everything, down to every last edge change of a program he’d seen his rival perform dozens of times by this point. He hadn’t changed any elements—both jumps of the opening quad Lutz-double loop combination had a raised hand and still followed, barely three seconds later, into the flying sit spin which had become his signature, entering the position before he’d even completed a full rotation. But what had always made him stand out were his jumps. Camus could throw quads like bread into a duck pond, effortless. What he lacked in grace compared to skaters like Cecil, he made up for in skill—pairing elements that shouldn’t be paired, backward combination spins on his non-dominant foot.

When it was over, the audience _screamed._ Camus had been perfect. Not only that—his routine had a higher difficulty value. When the scores were announced and Camus came out nearly eight points ahead of Kira, Masato felt his stomach clench. 

It wasn’t just that he couldn’t mess up. That, he’d already known.

If he wanted to win, he’d have to do something drastic.

Quickly, he took stock. While Cecil had grace and Camus had skill, the card up his own sleeve was stamina. His program was already backloaded—any jumps performed in the second half were given an extra 10% over their base value, which he and Ringo had arranged to its full advantage. But even that wouldn’t be enough on its own. What’s more, he couldn’t think about it too much—overthinking meant underrotating. That had been Ringo’s mantra for years, when he’d first started noticing his bad habits.

_’Get out of your own head, Masato.’_

As his name sounded over the announcer, he made his way to the center of the rink, pulling his gloves on as he went. He didn’t look at anyone. But he sensed the presence of the people that mattered: Shining, Ringo, his father. Haruka, who he hadn’t yet had the chance to speak to. To thank for coming. For making this possible.

The music started, and the show began.

In the first few seconds, the subject of the song entered the stage. Haruka didn’t know this, but the song represented his life as a skater—he’d been so insistent on keeping it precisely because she’d managed to capture that almost by accident. Almost like destiny. The choreography was in slow, stroking arcs, a spiral that built outward until he was nearly at the edge of the rink. His first spin was almost apprehensive, but it was supposed to be: a slow Bielmann was actually more difficult than a fast one, because it was harder to sustain the momentum. But it matched the pace of the song. Ringo had suggested it, and he’d instantly known it was right. 

From there came the first footwork sequence. Again, it was almost slow by his standards, but technical, with a lot of deep curves, flourishes built deep into each rested beat. Midway through, he turned a step into what was almost a single Salchow on impulse, but without a three-turn, meaning it wouldn’t count against his jump total. It felt right. With that certainty, just before the first change in tempo, he set up his first combination jump: quadruple flip, triple Lutz, double toe. No raised hand, but it was clean.

Upon further consideration, he’d convinced Ringo to cut the quadruple Salchow from this part of the program, under the promise that he would replace it later. Instead, he built his combination spin: camel to donut to modified layback, a long combination that required perfect momentum and took up nearly half of that phase of the song. He straightened, exiting out of the spin in long, intentional arcs, letting the momentum of his body carry him until he stepped out into tight, staccato-like twists in a long line toward the center. 

His favorite part of the routine was coming up—the second change in tempo. He swooped out of the steps, changing edges into a crossover sequence that passed over the halfway point of the program. There was a quadruple loop coming up—not an easy jump for him, but when it came out clean, he felt a brief surge of victory. But there wasn’t time. There was another combination right after: quadruple Salchow, triple loop.

At least, that’s how it was planned. A split second’s consideration was all that he needed to change his mind: the first half’s confidence propelling him, he changed edges and turned the planned Salchow into a Lutz, keeping the triple loop and adding a double toe at the end. That alone would add nearly four points in base value. He double-footed the landing, which would cost him—but not enough to cancel the overall gain.

After that, the song slowed down for a few seconds, as though to regain its momentum. And he was grateful for it. Even with his stamina, he could feel himself beginning to get tired. This gave him a chance to rally, as the long crossover sequence into reverse spiral barely took any energy. And it was a good thing—for the few seconds when the song cut out almost completely, he held his breath, curving deeply into the footwork sequence that led to his sit spin. But again, he modified. With his momentum carrying him, he turned it into a flying sit with a raised arm. Camus’ signature move. When he stepped out into another spiraling footwork sequence which ended with a quadruple flip, he couldn’t help the smile that came to his face. If the judges were surprised by the additions, then let them be. 

But that thought suddenly struck him. Was he even allowed to modify this much? As he went into his triple axel, he underrotated, proving Ringo’s mantra right. All the same, the program was going well so far. It didn’t matter. It couldn’t affect him—it was water over a duck’s back.

There were three more jumps coming up. One, a quadruple flip that few others had the audacity to attempt this late in the program, he turned into another quadruple Lutz—another nearly one and a half points in difficulty that paid off immediately when he landed clean. He supported it with a triple flip-double toe that had been planned, no modifications. With one jump remaining, he eased into his triple Salchow, easing out into the last combination spin—camel into sit spin. No raised hand. 

The sit spin came at the very end of the program. It was a risky move, because it ended with a scratch spin that he nearly stopped at speed. At the song’s final moments, he slowed, planting his pick in the ground. It was supposed to be dramatic—and when he stopped, a drop of sweat hit the ice below him as he bowed.

The fatigue hit him instantly. As soon as he stopped moving, a wave of dizziness washed over him that almost knocked him over, constricting his lungs and rendering it hard to breathe. He stayed bowed for several seconds, letting it wash over him. 

When he stood, the audience was a blur of color. He was already moving off the ice by the time the shapes of the people began to settle into individual forms.

And that was it. He’d left everything behind him. The rest would be whatever it would be.

As he neared the edge, he looked into the stands again, to where Haruka had been seated the day before. He couldn’t see her— _she may have sat somewhere else,_ he told himself, surprised for a moment at how much it _mattered_ that she’d watched him. Ringo was waiting, looking stern. But it barely registered.

Haruka was standing beside one of the stands. He brushed past his choreographer, walked right up to her, and kissed her.

He tasted the salt from his own face on her. When she gasped into his mouth, he released her enough to look at her.

“Were you watching?”

His lips were still practically brushing hers. She nodded. “Yes. You were amazing.”

“I was able to do this because of you.”

She went red. He could feel the heat through his hands. 

“I—I didn’t do all that. You already had this inside you, I just…helped bring it out.”

He was still holding her face, and looked at her until she looked at him. When she did, he smiled. “You are far too modest.” 

His name sounded over the intercom. That meant his scores were about to be announced. He checked himself—several feelings were warring for primacy.

“Wait for me,” he said. He released her, and she nodded, looking stunned—and looked back in time to see Shibuya Tomochika stare her friend down, a hand on her hip, looking for all the world like she was the only one missing out on some big secret.

He smiled to himself, making his way to the kiss & cry, where Ringo was frantically waving him over. He walked past his composer, taking a seat beside Shining, who was already waiting.

“ _Hijirikawa,_ ” he said. “You left everything on the ice. Your performance lit a fire in everyone who saw.” He turned to him enough that his dark glasses flashed in the light. “I am proud of you.”

Unexpectedly, a knot released in his gut. Shining was rarely one for praise. But Ringo was already speaking.

“Even though you _changed the routine,_ ” he huffed over crossed arms before turning to him, the look on his face somewhere between panic and pride. “What were you _thinking?_ That could have cost you everything!”

He hadn’t been thinking. That had been the point. “I had no choice,” Masato answered.

The three of them went silent. The announcer was preparing to list the scores. Suddenly, he was in a vicegrip, every muscle in his body tense as he sat up, straight as a board, hearing the individual scores as though from underwater. 

Ringo jumped up. Out of a corner of his eye, he saw the final number on the board. But it barely registered. He let his head fall back against the wall behind him, wave after wave of some unknown emotion washing over him. He closed his eyes. But his hands stayed tight on the lip of the bench, a tangible anchor that was the only thing that kept him from floating away. What the word for this feeling was, he didn’t know. There was nothing left to hold back—and if there were, he wouldn’t have.

He turned, meeting his father’s eyes. He’d felt his presence beside him like a sentinel for several minutes and had thus far ignored it. But rather than anger, or disappointment, or betrayal, his father acknowledged him with a single nod, turned, and left.

Their agreement would stand. His father was a man of his word. If his father had seen him with Haruka, he gave no indication. But there had been something else in that look as well—something the older Hijirikawa would never say out loud.

Something he’d stopped craving long ago.

On the podium, the air was cold around him as he accepted his bouquet of flowers, then bowed his head to receive the medal. He saw Kira acknowledge him with a nod, which he returned. 

Camus said nothing. He’d expected nothing. But the man seemed calm rather than angry or disappointed. And when it was over, he swept down and off the ice in perfect silence—it was Saito Hatoshi, his coach, whom he saw acknowledge Shining with a slight bow, then turn and leave with his pupil and their entourage.

After a minute or so, he followed. As the crowds were dispersing, he found Haruka waiting just outside the gate—with Tomo behind her, signing autographs and taking pictures with a few lingering Japanese fans who had recognized her. Amused, he watched for a moment before turning to Haruka to find her looking at him with an expression he couldn’t place.

“Hijirikawa-san—” That look quickly turned into a grimace that she hid with a bow, almost like she was trying to hold something back. Without raising her head, she continued. “Thank you for winning today, I don’t know what I would have done if—”

He took her hand, cutting her off, and raised it to his lips. She blushed, raising her head enough to look at him. 

“Nanami-san, please come to dinner with me.”

Her blush deepened. She tried to pull her hand back, but he held it firm. “Hijirikawa-san, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said, releasing her hand. He stepped closer, brushing her hair behind her ear. “When we get home. Please think about it.”

She followed the motion of his hand, her face still deeply pink. “Okay,” she answered quietly. “I will.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **E/N:** I never ever _ever_ thought I would have the chance to merge these worlds. And I didn’t, technically, because this isn’t a crossover—skating and Utapri, though. Ugh. I’m still giddy. And oh my _goodness_ this was fun to write, even though the result was much more raw than I’m really used to. 
> 
> This is complete, though. I won’t be adding any more here, so use your imaginations as to what comes next. :P And if you enjoyed this, hated it, whatever—please let me know your thoughts!  
> 


End file.
